Blessed be the sheeps ignorance in the shadow of its sheppard, Damned be the wolves preying on the sheeps naivity. The sheppard pulls the wool over its eyes to protect it. Gnashing teeth, A shallow mercy, Witness the irony. A shallow hand extended to the weak willed and meek. Old men with old ideals, Closed minds and closed hands. No room for interpretation. Their scattered lore's. Words laced with hypocrisy. A heaving mass of wretched bodies, They lay prostrated before idols of wood and nail. Suckling at their virgins teat. Tongues laced with bile and venom, Spitting forth heresy in the name of the merciful. I refute your claims that our god is the same, The misery is knowing, Your abhorent faith is your greatest shame. I'll forge my own path based on the rational, Yet I believe in room for faith that's no denial. I'm no evangelist or post-modern lunatic, I'm a mere man with my own thoughts of life and where I fit in it. Break through the seems of selfish heart-ache and misery in this wretched existence. You raise your hands unto your god, with murderous intent. A baron wasteland awaits thee, You've no chance to repent. Thus remains the typical metaphor, Wolves amongst the flock. Hiding so they can't be sought, For preying on sheep in their familiar pasture. The final irony, Allow the sheppard to maintain the simplicity. Release the wolves to devour the lot. Faith is neither the moral high ground nor a sense of endearment, What matters depends on the person, not the prophet.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
